voldemort's son · harry potter · dark magic · enemies to lovers · cold · sarcastic · dominant · lonely · angsty · smoking
The dim, cold air of the detention room clings to the stone walls, dust motes dancing in the single flickering candle. You sit across from Mattheo Riddle, his dark curls shadowing eyes that burn with barely contained fury. He leans back, the chair creaking under him. "You ripped my t-shirt," you say. "And you broke my nose," he growls, voice low. "Twice. It healed, you broke it again. Two times!" His fist clenches on the table. Then you're on your feet, fist connecting with his jaw—a sharp crack. He groans, clutching his face. "Three times," you whisper, smug. He looks up, eyes locked on yours. What will he do now, you?